


The Unwinding Circle

by LilacAlyssaHalliwell



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Careers (Hunger Games), Child Abuse, Child! Cato, Child! Clove, Clato - Freeform, District 2, District Two World Building, F/M, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Slow Build, canon ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 12:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacAlyssaHalliwell/pseuds/LilacAlyssaHalliwell
Summary: They say that when love is not madness, it's not love. Well, that's never been a problem for District Two's Cato and Clove, who meet at age six, a full decade before competing in the 74th Annual Hunger Games. This is their story, counting back from day one.Features a canon ending, followed by a multi-chapter alternate ending.





	1. The Annex

A story should have a beginning, a middle and an end, but not necessarily in that order.

\- Jean-Luc Godard

* * *

**Hunger Games Year 64**

"Honey, are you ready yet?" Clove's mother called from the bottom of the staircase. Adjusting the weight of her elder daughter's messenger bag on her shoulder, she called yet again, "Clove! It takes ten minutes to get to the Annex. It's rude to be late, especially on your first day!"

"I can't find anything to wear," came the delayed response from the top of the stairs.

Mrs. Holloway sighed, lifting the messenger bag off of her shoulder, and grabbing her younger daughter from her place on their living room couch. Racing up the stairs, she swiftly pushed her eldest daughter's door open to find a seemingly war-torn bedroom. Sitting in a growing pile of clothing was six-year-old Clove.

Clove's mother didn't bother to mention to her distraught daughter that most of these items were not suitable for training in the first place, including a white dress that Clove had accidentally ruined at a classmate's birthday the previous school year and spotted pajamas that were too small.

Elma Holloway set her younger daughter on the floor and impatiently rummaged through a drawer in Clove's dresser, quickly withdrawing a black tank top and lime green pair of spandex shorts. Her long hair toppled over her left shoulder as she leaned into the drawer and she shook her head to clear the hair from her line of sight.

"When you're done putting on your outfit, don't forget to put on socks and double knot your shoelaces. You have two minutes, Clove, or your father will hear about this."

Clove stuck her lip out in a pout.

As Clove began to put on the tank top, Mrs. Holloway nodded affirmatively and returned downstairs to her last minute errands. She eyed Clove's messenger bag critically and added two more juice boxes and an extra bag of her trail mix for good measure. Finally satisfied, she entered the vehicle garage, placing Clove's messenger bag in the backseat of her car.

In the background, she could hear Clove trailing down the stairs with loud thumps. She placed her youngest daughter in her car seat, fastened her in, and then returned to the driver's seat. Clove appeared, pacing nervously in the garage.

Mrs. Holloway couldn't help but to smile at her daughter's reluctance. "You look great. C'mon, let's get going."

As they drove towards the Annex, all fronts were quiet. Clove gazed curiously out the window as the they took the dirt road north towards the center of town. Eventually, they made a left turn and she saw a field of green, a field so unlike where they lived.

It was an eight minute commute. When they came to complete stop, Clove gazed upward to the multi-storied industrial building. This was it. This was the Training Annex of District Two West. It was a sight. She scratched a few fingers against the tightened hair tie and looked on nervously.

Her mother's words cut her ruminations short. "We'll be back in the afternoon. Do well."

Clove pried the door open and inched out cautiously. She dragged her messenger bag from the seat and pulled it against herself. Then, she took a breath and ran into the building, waving off at her mother.

Her mother watched her enter the building, and called out from her car window, "Clove, make us-" before pursing her lips together. Her little girl had already vanished from sight.

* * *

As Clove traveled inside the building, she noticed just how far outwards the building stretched. The initial adrenaline wore off, creating a dull tension in her shoulders that made her wince. She dropped the blue messenger bag onto the floor and began to pull it along rather haphazardly, looking for any help she could find.

That's when she came upon a woman sitting behind a counter. Clove stood on the tips of her toes and asked, "Mrs, where is the room where we put our backpacks?"

The older woman looked away from her screen and down over the counter at her. She pointed hazily to the left. "You have about three minutes until class begins, so you'd better hurry, child."

Clove frowned slightly. "Thanks, Mrs." She rolled her shoulders, sighed, and began running towards the entrance of the locker rooms. As she traipsed along, her messenger bag began making unfriendly clinks as it dragged along the tile in hasty bumps.

Inside the girl's locker room was humid, brightly lit, and a bit dingy. The lockers towered high above her, with many already enclosed. Clove paced slowly, pulling a door open to place her bag. Forcefully, she shoved the blue messenger back into place, and slammed the door with as much strength as she could muster.

Stumbling out the door, she sprinted down the hallway in search of the her classroom. She counted the class numbers in the distance, toppling over suddenly when she was hit by something strong. It took her less than a second to recover, shouting an apology to the blond blur that fell behind her as she continued to her classroom.

Her eyes caught the sign signifying she had found the right room. A gray placard adorned the wall, written in black ink, announcing 'Registered Youth: Level I.' Twisting the door handle, Clove entered. The first thing she noticed was the absence of any adult figure, the second was the comfortable mat floors.

She recognized some of the girls from school, but that was less than half of the girls in the room. Sitting a safe distance from them, Clove eyed the door with anticipatory anxiety. Less than a minute later that the door opened and the rest of the girls behind her pivoted towards their new companion.

Their instructors took no time to command them into a single file line. As the pair perused the girls, they made quick observations of each girl, some neutral, most quite critical. By the time they reached her, their observations were brief and she was tallied up in three adjectives, "She's rather small, a delicate and unrefined girl. I'm not sure how she'll fare."

They then moved onto the next girl, a girl in pigtails and red tee, whose lip quavered as they labeled her 'uncoordinated' and various other mean remarks. Her breathing was shallow, her hands winding and unwinding into fists as she bit her lip.

"Stop it!" Clove whispered to the girl.

The pig-tailed girl's response was an angry glare, crossing her arms sullenly. Clove only dismissed her tantrum and watched as the instructors continued their assessments of the other girls.

Their first year orientation began shortly after, in which the instructors assigned them positions on the mats. "Holloway, you're second row, first on the left."

She took her place and was gifted a one-inch circular red pin. It read 'cohort 64: level i' with her surname in smaller print below it. "This pin must be worn at all times. Failure to present your pin upon request will result in punishment. Are we understood?"

"Yes," the girls chorused together.

"Those of you in this group have been assigned to Class 1C. There are five first year classes — three boys classes and two girls. You will be kept separate from the boys for the first three years of introductory training until you're promoted to intermediate level, when you begin weapon's training. At the end of your third year, a skills test will be required for those of you hoping to move onto the next set of courses."

The older of the instructors spoke next, "You have been assigned to the Year 64 Cohort because each of you is six years old today. For some of you that is better luck than others. Think to yourself which of you leans closer to seven years old than six and determine what advantages or disadvantages it may bring."

Clove figured that she didn't swing either way in the pendulum of luck based on her birth date, which was more or less in the middle.

She watched as the younger instructor became more ardent, passionately remarking, "One of our district's most recent victors, Enobaria Jamison, won only two years ago and she trained here. Imagine, if an education here benefited Ms. Jamison, think of what it could do for you. If you are talented enough, clever enough, strong enough, it may be one of you who has the great honor of going on to represent our district in a Hunger Games of your very own someday."

The orientation then closed with an order to run the perimeter of the room ten times, and in that moment, Clove swore the room grew infinitely larger. In the first few laps, the girls mostly held their pace, but eventually the girls began to stagger.

Almost instantaneously, the instructors swooped in like hawk to their prey. They harped nastily at the girls. Clove hardly kept her pace, but it took a solid half hour for the laps to cease. She certainly wasn't the fastest in her class, but unlike the sobbing girls in the corner, she wasn't the slowest either.

Unsympathetically, they screeched at the gaggle of crying girls that they had a choice between returning to their places or leaving and never returning. Hastily, the girls returned to their spots and watched through blurred eyes as their instructors demonstrated elementary sparring techniques — mostly punching and defensive blocks.

After three demonstrations, the girls were split into two lines and paired up. Clove's side was instructed to punch, while the opposing side was to defend.

Clove sunk into herself with self-pity upon being paired up with the nervous girl from before. Once in the proper stance, the command came for them to begin, and Clove began punching.

They repeated the same motion of punching and defending until they were nearly against the wall. Somewhat adjusted to the motion, Clove moved forward once last time and struck the girl. Her partner fell to the ground with a bouncing thud against the mats. Immediately, Clove stepped forward and outstretched her arm to her partner. "I sorta cheated," she admitted.

"You are not to deviate from the technique!" the younger of the instructors was upon them in an instant. "What is your name?"

Out of breath, Clove replied, "Clo—Clove Holloway."

"You were told not to deviate from the technique, were you not?"

Clove bit her lip. "Yes."

"Ten extra laps, Holloway. Make sure you're not in the business of making this mistake again. Are we understood?"

"Yes'm."

The instructor then turned towards her partner and violently yanked her by a pigtail, "And you?"

"I'm… I'm… I really am sorry," she winced at the instructor's warm breath.

"You are dismissed, Miss Winthrop," the older instructor said, appearing much calmer than his colleague.

The girl's eyes began to water, but with a quick gesture for the door, she ran outside of the room.

"Where are those laps, Holloway?" the instructor grit out.

Trembling, Clove began her laps around the gym, determined not to stop in fear of retaliation.

* * *

After several hours their class was dismissed for a short break. Feeling her energy in a peculiar sort of flux, Clove nearly skipped her way towards the girl's locker room. Along the way, she managed to soak her tank top when a mishap with the drinking fountain left her a dripping.

Walking along the path to the girl's locker room she thought wistfully of all the things she could have been doing besides training. Her kindergarten teacher had told her she'd be a great candidate for Two West one day, and her teacher had promised to never lie to them.

Toeing the edge of an underpass, Clove began to watch the various groups of older students making their way through the Annex. Some groups of friends began to challenge each other to various physical challenges, while others discussed what workshops they'd take in their free hours.

It was another minute along the way that she noticed a younger blond boy closer to her age leaning against the wall of the Victor's Hallway. He didn't look like he wanted to be bothered. Clove understood the feeling. He was pouring over a bag of trail mix and she glanced over him enviously, suddenly excited for her own bag.

It was then she noticed the teal ribbons laying wastefully on the floor beside him. Her eyes tightened in response and she made her way over to him.

"Hello!" she said, brightly.

The blond boy looked up, as if unsure if she was talking to him or not. When he ascertained that she was, he watched her suspiciously. "What do you want?"

When she didn't reply right away, he turned away, eating another handful of the trail mix. Clove begged her mind to come up with something more to say. Instead, the boy broke the ice with a snide remark, "Nice shirt, newbie."

Clove took a seat beside him. His glance-over in response made it abundantly clear he hadn't welcomed this move. She chose to ignore his disdain, sitting next to him in silence.

There was no tactful way to broach this topic. How did she start? 'Hey, what were you doing in the girl's locker room?' or 'Hey, you stealer, why did you take my trail mix,' or 'Hey! that's mine, dummy!'

Clove supposed she could let it slide, but she was still curious as to why he'd stolen the trail mix from her messenger bag in the first place. She hesitated, softly grabbing the familiar ribbons, her mother's signature ribbons, and clenched them in her hand.

Finally, she smiled at him, and he looked back at her just as suspicious as before. "I can bring you more trail mix tomorrow."

The boy looked up, a ghost of a flush on his face. He scowled at her as if to be threatening, but when that didn't appear to work he let out a sigh a moment later. He rose and looked down on her now, remarking, "Fair enough. I'm Cato Elroy. I'm in Cohort 63."

From this new angle he seemed much less intimidating.

"See ya' round, new kid," he said, mockingly waving as he stalked off and left her behind.


	2. The Olive Branch

I ran away the day I was born.  
It was because I heard father and mother talking about  
what I was to be when I became a man.

\- Peter Pan

* * *

Cato pulled off the weighted vest and threw it into a pile with a few others. He was the last to leave, watching his peers exit in many a manner, some stretching out their backs, others quenching themselves with their water canisters. His vest made a nasty clunking sound on immediate impact and he gave it dirty look before leaving the room himself.

As he made his way down the hallways, he heard the wails of a new year. Cato couldn't be sure, but he believed it likely the first year girls. He spied through a window — none of the girls were bleeding. Not yet, anyways. He wondered if they would wail less if they knew how much worse it was for first year boys. There was something to be said for how well the Annex broke in its boys, he thought.

Pulling himself from the door, he continued down his path. He went into his pocket, only managing to pluck a single quarter. He heard his father's comments in the back of his mind right as his stomach protested; " _Food may become scarce in the arena, boy. You must be able survive without it if you want to ensure your success."_

Cato grew frustrated. He wasn't sure how that made sense when he'd seen in the most recent games that the tributes of District Two had the most bountiful sponsors. While that hadn't been enough to save them, he couldn't determine why this method was the one his parents had chosen for him.

A group of students from a much older cohort were walking along the path in the opposite direction of him, with a few snickering at his appearance as they passed. 

"They get mangier and mangier every year," he heard one say.

Cato stomped away angrily in response and made his way to the girl's locker room. Not a soul was in sight to his great fortune. He began to rummage through his pick of a few lockers' selection. Most of the bags were littered with largely useless items; sunblock, towels, and toys. He shoved those bags back into their lockers with a nasty kick.

Right as he was about to give up on his search, he tripped over a bag spilling out from a floor-level locker. The messenger bag reminded him of his own brother's bag, though this one was blue instead of black. He sorted through the bag to find juice boxes, socks, and personal effects. His curiosity peaking, he snatched up a note in the corner of the bag.

'Clove, darling, work your hardest. We know you'll continue to make us proud. Love, Mama, Papa, and Magnilda.'

Cato stuffed the note back into the bag with a sour huff until he came upon a few bags of trail mix hidden underneath a spare pair of shoes. Now, this would do. Doing this 'Clove' girl a favor for her generosity, he closed her bag and made sure this time it fit properly into the locker before making his way.

* * *

As he sat in the decorated Victor's Hallway of the Annex with his prize in tow, Cato looked to the portraits he'd passed so many times the previous year. The portraits were hung in succession from left to right, so furthest right hung a photo of their newest victor, Wyatt Almoy. Last year, at age eighteen, he'd done a number on the last tributes, powerfully wielding a gleaming silver sword.

_"The Almoy boy is on television again," his father had remarked one morning not too long ago. "He certainly does a number of interviews."_

_"Someone has to, since Carrold and Vallejo can't be assed to," his mother had retorted, spitefully. "Jamison was on the other day, too. Holland does a good job of wrangling his keep."_

There were tales and then tall tales among them of the victors of Two past.

Their most infamous was the victor of Hunger Games 52; Drey Holland, a dark-skinned tribute, had carved open the stomach of the District 10 male tribute and had used his intestines to strangle the female tribute from District 1.

Not all of their victors were as reputable. Two years back to back they'd had some rather low-key victors; Mina Carrold had won in 58. She, and the Grim Reaper victor, Raul Vallejo of 59, whom she had befriended, had slipped into the shadows post-victory, only reappearing as required.

When their instructors wanted to motivate them, they'd often recite, "Enobaria Jamison trained here. If an education here benefited her, imagine the doors it can open for you."

No one ever mentioned Mina Carrold had trained here, too. Cato didn't believe that to be an accident.

_"There are whispers they'll marry," his brother had told him once of the pair. "They'd be the first to do so."_

The portraits that hung pre-dated their games, a motivational instrument to remind the students that they too could achieve the highest glory. Still, it was peculiar to him how normal they looked; Mina had dimples and wild blonde hair she couldn't tame. Enobaria had a small scratch on the tip of her nose that he'd never really looked for before in her interviews. Drey had crooked teeth and scar running down his neck.

In these photos Cato thought to himself that he wouldn't be surprised to watch some of them stalking down this very hallway.

He found a steady seat looking to Brutus' headshot, who then had had light brown hair. Cato opened the cellophane bag. He discarded the teal ribbon on the floor and looked into the bag, where he found raisins, peanuts, almonds, granola, and even small color-coated pieces of chocolate. A perfect treat. Well, almost. The almonds were a crime against humanity, but he figured he would be forgiving this one time.

Brutus was easily the best, he thought. The strongest, most certainly, and from the appearances he made on television, easily the funniest, too.

Not even a minute into the treat, he heard the exhausted sighs from the dreary and worn-down first year girls. Many looked ready to go home to their mothers and never return. He wondered if 'Clove' was one of those girls before putting them out of his mind.

Really, there were more important matters to attend to. If he could make it through the next three hours, just three more hours, things would take an upturn.

He pulled a knee inwards and slumped lazily against it, yawning slighting. "Hello!" he heard suddenly in front of him. With a frown on his face, he looked upwards. A girl unfamiliar to him, presumably a Level I was watching him curiously. Her dark hair was fluffy from exposure to sweat and she had drenched her black top.

"What do you want?"

She wasn't crying, which made her miles better than some of the other first years, but that assumption was met with a lingering not crying _yet_.

Unintimidated, she sat beside him and remained silently. 'Whatever' he figured and returned to his trail mix. When it became clear that a silence tactic wouldn't discourage her, he added with a sneer, "Nice shirt, newbie."

The little girl bit her lip with aggravation, succeeding only in stretching her top. The continuing theme of silence persisted, but didn't bother him much. Cato returned to his mantra. Three more hours, three more hours.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the girl grabbing the teal ribbons from the tile. Maybe that was all she wanted. Girls enjoyed those sorts of things, right?

She smiled at him.

"I can bring your more trail mix tomorrow."

So this was 'Clove.' He went cold for a moment. She wasn't going to tell on him, was she?

In hopes she'd keep quiet, Cato gave her his nastiest scowl. Clove remained undaunted.

Sighing, he picked himself up. He figured she was probably harmless. Well, at least for now, and that's all he could do before he was late. She seemed particularly cheerful, which was disarming. Cato almost felt pity.

"Fair enough. I'm Cato Elroy. I'm in cohort 63," The three-hour mantra continued in his head and with a hazy wave, he teased, "See ya round', new kid."

And suddenly, he felt a lot better already.

* * *

The showcases were one of his favorite Annex activities. To watch and admire older students' skill sets and to develop an understanding of what would come to be expected of them was an opportunity not to be missed.

Mars, his older brother, was a part of the initial performance.

Confidence was key. Cato could see that. Mars gracefully threw one axe to the left, hitting the training dummy directly in the heart, and then did the same with his right hand. Looking slightly superfluous, he gave the audience a cocky grin. Two boys behind him stepped forward and two even older girls set up a new display.

As if to test their limits, the two girls set up a challenge and elder boys each bestowed the performers with a sword, an expectant twinkle in their eyes.

Mars stepped down and the new boys took his place.

"Skill and precision are critical to a good tribute, but do not sacrifice technique for a win. The Hunger Games is just as much about artistry and technique as they are about cunning, survival, and bravery. Our District rarely falls short of a good show and it would be a dishonor to begin now," the Annex administrator remarked.

"Look, look!" a first year boy murmured to another in an excited whisper. Cato turned to him, grated, before watching the boy be dragged aside by an instructor. With a sense of wonder, he waited for them to return, and when they did, the first year was clutching his cheek, devoid of commentary.

Once the sword combat display was over, with one boy posing his wooden sword over the heart of his challenger, he let up and they exited the stage together. 

It was then that a sudden weight fell into his lap. He turned back around to see the brunette from before watching with intrigue as two new students sparred, a red-haired teen kneeing his opponent in the stomach. When it was clear that he'd won, the instructors dismissed the audience, and Clove looked to him.

Cato grabbed the rather large bag of trail mix, looking for his older brother, but unable to find him.

"I told you I'd get more," she said, smirking as they walked towards the exit among loud, excited chatter.

"Well…" he wanted to pick his words carefully. "Thanks, I guess."

"Don't," she said, turning to him with a vindictive flare that took him by surprise. "The next time you steal my mama's trail mix, I'll get you."

Cato quirked his head to the side. Finally deciding on laughter as the best approach, he remarked, "I'll hold you to that, newbie."

That's when he saw her spark and the possibility.

"Clove. My name is Clove," she huffed in frustration.

"It's only the first day and you're already upset? Come on. Don't you know you got a long way to go?" he teased. Clove scrunched up her nose and ammo'ed up a hasty response, before retreating to a figure in the distance.

"Don't count me out yet, Cato Elroy!" She chirped.

Cato laughed at her again and taunted, "Wouldn't dream of it!"


	3. The Fallout

Me, I'm dishonest, and you can always trust a dishonest man to be dishonest.  
Honestly, it's the honest ones you have to watch out for.

-Jack Sparrow

* * *

_October, Hunger Games Year 66_

It became routine.

Eight-year-old Clove Holloway would sneak into the boy's locker room, deposit the large bag of trail mix in his locker, and vanish into the day.

This time, however, Clove had attached a hole-punched note to the familiar teal ribbons encapsulating the cellophane bag.

Clove glimpsed over at the note doubtfully and made her decision, tearing it away. It wasn't worth the trouble, she decided.

"Whatcha' looking at?" his familiar voice inquired as he steadied over with a white hand towel in his grasp. Cato wiped his face and exhaled. Clove didn't respond, prompting him to snatch the note from her with a presumptuous roll of his shoulder.

"Cato! Didn't your mama teach you not to take from others?" she protested unhappily. That didn't deter him from uncrumpling the note and glimpsing over it.

He laughed, "What do you think, Clove?"

'Good luck today' the note read in total chicken scratch.

"Thanks, Clovey," he said, with an arrogant, yet equally gracious smile spread across his cheeks. Cato pocketed the scrap with a widening grin when he saw what lied behind her. "More trail mix? You're the best ever!"

Cato sat on the bench adjacent from his locker, taking a handful into his mouth. He gestured for her to sit beside him since his mouth was too full to speak.

Clove huffed, mildly exasperated, "What would you do without me?" She began playing with the fraying ends of her ponytail.

"Probably — starve," he answered between mouthfuls.

Clove dismissed the theatrics as just another piece of the Elroy puzzle. His boyish smile and innocent disposition were increasingly hard to come by, but she figured moments like this made her shaky alliance with him worth the extra effort. "Chocolate's the best part," he told her.

Clove was impressed with how long he'd maintained his civility. She wondered what his comrades would say if they could see him now.

She stirred in her seat. "Um, are you nervous about exams?" Clove lifted her messenger bag onto the seat and its weight rung against the metal. She withdrew a bag of apple slices and nibbled on the first slice slowly.

"No, but it looks like you are."

Cato rested a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. He watched her expression reform into confusion and he retracted his hand. "You did it last year, Clove. You can do it this year, and when you pass, you'll finally get to work with real weapons."

"I know that!" she griped, defensively. "You sure never stop talking about that stupid sword of yours."

"Swords aren't stupid!" he replied, instantly shifting his posture more aggressively.

"They are if you can't get close enough to your challenger to attack!"

"That would never happen!" Cato barked back. He simmered for a moment, before shoving her violently away from him. His eyes widened when she fell so far back that the back of her head made quick contact with silver bleacher.

Clove bounced back, holding her head with a look that could kill.

Cato looked unsure of himself and only asked, "Why do you always have to be so mean, Clove?"

Heat flushed her face. "Me? I'm not the mean one, Cato!" she snapped, hitting him back just as hard in the stomach. Cato faltered and she didn't miss his wince of pain. That quelled her anger for a moment and she said to him, "Weapons training probably isn't that fun if they hit you in the stomach."

"I—"

Without an ounce of reluctance, Clove lifted his shirt to examine the wound she'd inflicted. "I don't…" she murmured to herself, examining his injury. There was no slicing, no bleeding wound, not a bandage she could see. In its place was a doozy of a bruise with many smaller marks surrounding the injury. That couldn't alone be her doing.

"These don't look they come from any weapon here. Are you cross-training, too? That would explain why you're such a jerk all the time."

"Er, no." he said, frowning.

There was a soft brush of her fingers across the sorest part of his abdomen. "Hey, stop it!" Cato commanded, pushing her away from him. This time he was considerably more aware of how hard he was pushing her and withdrew.

This only sparked Clove's interest even more. He looked worried and for some reason that worry spurred even more of her concerns. "Who did this to you, Cato?"

"Who cares?" he responded, irate. Cato pulled a water canister from his locker and turned away from Clove.

"Who. did. this." Clove emphasized each word, drawing them out, and pulled at the circular collar of his red t-shirt.

Cato tilted his head to the side and allowed wariness to take over. At 4'0 feet tall and barely fifty pounds, she was hardly a contender against him, but that didn't mean she wasn't a threat.

Resigned, Cato replied softly, "Take a guess."

"Your family?" she asked, her face full of sorrow. "But why?"

"To make me stronger," he said, defensively. He wiped at his eyes self-consciously.

"We have to tell someone!" Clove exclaimed, abandoning her snacks, and gunning for the exit of the boy's locker room. Cato quickly snatched her right wrist and forcefully yanked her away from the door.

"Do you really think that will help?" he asked her, angry. "Don't even think about it. I'm serious! If you, if you even dare, I'll make sure this is the last time you ever come in the Annex ever again."

Clove struggled against him, "It's not fair!" To her credit, she didn't cry. To her credit, she tried to stand her ground, but there was just too much at stake. This indiscretion would forever cause a shift in their allyship. They would never be able to go back to casual friendship ever again, not with his secret hanging in open air. "Training hurts enough and now they're—"

He turned around and forced her to look into his eyes. "Listen to me. It doesn't matter." Clove continued to struggle against him, eventually slamming her elbow into the apex of his nose.

"Ah, Clove!" he complained, releasing her from his clutches and trying to stop the bleeding.

"I won't let them do that to you," she said, earnestly. Clove handed him his white towel, which he snatched forcefully from her hand with a glare.

"Listen, you think what they do to me is bad? Well, what I'll do to your family will be way, way worse if you don't keep your mouth shut," Cato said, coolly.

Clove scowled, defiant, and resolutely unafraid of his threats. "I'm just trying to—"

"Just trying get your family killed, shrimp. I'm serious. Don't even think about it."

Clove inhaled an angry breath, balled her fist, and knocked him down with as much strength she could muster. He crumpled slightly, with a much more noticeable wince than before, and she looked down on him with a hostile expression, the fury unwinding before him. "You're a lot dumber than I thought, Cato Elroy!"

And he figured that had to be true, because otherwise he wouldn't have put himself in this position to begin with.

 


	4. The Dosage

I never expect to see a perfect work from an imperfect man.

\- Alexander Hamilton

* * *

_February, Hunger Games Year 67_

Cato supposed it was likely all coincidence, but his friends had a strange, sickening fascination with Clove. Of all the potential victims to torture, she was certainly their favorite, and especially their favorite to drag him along  to watch.

If their antagonism of Clove had been genuine and rooted from a place of sincere disdain, he could at least pretend to understand their frame of mind. As it stood, they appeared to rather like her in some aspects — they were always the loudest voices to cheer her on during hand-to-hand combat demonstrations. Too bad they were always fighting a losing battle, because Clove was pretty much beyond hope as far that pursuit went.

So, as they entered the close-combat training room, Cato hung back. He was lucky that Felix, the oldest of them at ten years old, was just tall enough to hide him by a few inches. He became the first to formally approach Clove, boldly making his way to her.

"Hollowayyy," Felix said, elongating her last name in greeting with a slick grin as he made his way over to Clove in the center of the room. His dark brown eyes lit up in amusement at the terrible job she was doing of using the punching bag effectively.

"What do you want, hoodlum?" she asked, dreadfully.

"Felix, Holloway. Come on, we're all friends here. The ladies call me Felici," he corrected, his Chesire grin still in place.

"No, they don't," another of his friends said from behind him.

"The last thing we are are friends," she said pointedly to Felix. 

To the rest of his commentary, Clove didn't outright say she didn't care but that much was apparent. She returned to the punching bag, this time working on her kicks and placing a great deal of effort to dodge the bag's momentum as it swung back around. It only took a few kicks for her to take pause, panting, then she leaned on the bag for a moment when it came to a halt. 

"You should practice with us, Clove," another of his friends, Nero, added helpfully.

"You guys are bigger than me. S'not really a fair fight." Clove said, returning to the punching bag with even more vigor. She managed to get one punch in that particularly impressed him, but consequently the rest were more disappointing than the previous round.

Nero rolled his shoulders in response, "Can't say I didn't offer."

"That's not what I asked for, Nero" she said, sullenly.

Cato couldn't be sure what she meant by that and Nero didn't reply to add any further clarity. Cato didn't voice the thought that most of the students in the Annex were bigger than her and that the Hunger Games were certainly not going to be a 'fair fight.'

Nero only huffed in response, running a hand through his sandy locks with great exasperation.

"Cato's the smallest. He'll fight you."

"Hey! Don't volunteer me for stuff, Dicey!" Cato snapped instantly in surprise, turning back to the last of his friends, a brown-eyed boy with reddish hair, behind him.

Dicey grumbled a few expletives in protest that seemed to surprise even Felix, whose eyes had widened in confusion. Nero gingerly pulled Dicey an arm's length away from Clove. In response, the auburn-haired boy gave him a rather solid glare.

As if to diffuse, Felix stalked even closer to her, diplomatically asking, "Hey, Holloway, when's your birthday?"

In a simple blow, Felix gave the punching bag much more strength than Clove had been able to muster thus far. 

"February 4th," she managed, while dodging Felix's rebounding bag. She went in for another punch, engaging with him at the bare minimum.

"Cato and Dicey are nine too, then." Thoughtfully, he added, "Cato won't be ten until the summer, you know."

Clove directed the punching bag back towards Felix, who casually thrust it back towards her. They took turns with one another. Cato noticed Clove's posture relax, if only just a bit. "Yeah, I know. Finnick Odair won on the same day as Cato's birthday. We saw his brother in the bakery. It's June 27th, right? My sister's birthday is the 2nd of July."

Dicey and Felix appeared mildly surprised, with Nero supplementing for them, "That's the most you've said to us in a while, Clove."

Clove shrugged, still not giving him the time of day, and returned to kicking the punching bag, "Talking's easy, but talking's a choice."

"So, you choose not to talk to us," Felix clarified.

"I choose not to talk to him," she corrected, her comment directed spitefully toward Nero.

The three boys turned to Nero curiously, but said nothing.

Cato couldn't help but cringe at her technique. The instructors always ran them ragged, but maybe girls got a free pass. Cato wrinkled his nose for a moment and motioned himself closer to Felix and farther from Dicey and Nero, "Why are you in the hand-to-hand combat classroom, anyways?"

"My third quarter examination is over hand-to-hand, and I plan to win."

Dicey traipsed forward, an unbecoming smirk on his face as he freed himself from Nero's clutches. "Not if you keep training like this, runt," he said, haughty and hysterical. "How do you live with yourself knowing that you're this far in and still this bad?"

"Dicey, leave it alone," Nero remarked.

"No, really," Dicey continued, arrogantly. "Cato's smallest, but if he won't do it, I will. I'm right about the same size, eh, Felix?"

"Right about," Felix agreed, and looked to her, "He'd be good practice for you, because he's even smaller than Cato. You know, if you really want to win and all."

"I don't want to fight Wilder," Clove said, turning the other cheek.

"Then you're never going to improve. Never. You have to be able to take on any challenge if you really want to get better," Dicey told her. Clove growled, but Dicey only invited it in. "I mean, really, runt, this is pathetic. Maybe we should start taking bets for when you'll get cut, and—"

She tackled Dicey to ground, viciously knocking his head against the mats. The three boys took a step back to avoid becoming a casualty in the scene that was unfolding right before their eyes. Once they did, each came to some rather dry conclusions about the fight. Nero was shamefully trying to cover his mouth and hide his laughter, Felix looked ecstatic, and even Cato couldn't help the lopsided grin on his face as Clove hit Dicey in the jaw.

"Stop calling me a runt!" she screeched

Dicey didn't stay down for long and regained the upper hand, punching Clove in stomach. She flailed her arms hysterically in response and succeeded in hitting him on the back of the head with a great deal of force.

He let her go for a brief second, before pinning her down with his elbow, "You won't win, Holloway." He released his elbow, and when she rose up, Dicey grabbed her by the ponytail instead and pulled her towards him. "Try harder! This isn't a fucking birthday party. C'mon!"

Cato and Nero squinted their eyes. Felix finally lost his cocky grin, looking rather confused at the whole display. Was Dicey coaching her? Why? Felix scratched his head and pressed his black hair back, before settling on resting his arm on Cato's shoulder, using him as support.

"This is weird," he said, watching the duo.

"No kidding," Cato replied.

"Wilder, let me go!" Clove screeched. Dicey's fist collided with her teeth, resulting in a sickening mix of blood and saliva. Clove used this opportunity to lean her head forward and slam her forehead into him. Dicey released her ponytail upon impact and Clove hastily grabbed his neck. Instantly, she pressed her fingers against his throat and he collapsed.

Maybe she was learning something after all, Cato thought.

Clove panted, desperately trying to catch her breath, while also coughing out blood. Nero stood reluctantly, as if trying to decide whether to come to her aid.

"Not bad, Holloway," Felix said, back to his Chesire grin. He went to shake her hand, but she gave him a strange look and left them to their thoughts with a haughty glare.

Once he broke out his stupor, Nero fell to the floor beside Dicey, and gently lifted the unconscious boy onto himself. "You should know better than that by now," he murmured to Dicey.

Still irate from Dicey's misbehavior, Cato castigated, "Stop babying him." He forced Felix off of himself, "And you, you started this. Stop."

Nero gave him a scowl that reminded him a great deal of Clove. "I have to make sure he's breathing. Maybe if you paid attention to more than just weapons, you'd know that some injuries can't wait to be treated, Cato!"

"Like I care. Whatever. I'm going to watch the displays. When Dicey stops being a wimp, come find me."

* * *

 

Watching Clove get into a zen state of synchrony was fascinating. He always pictured her as sharp-tongued and defensive, never this calm. The room was loud at this point, with many of the Level I and IIs sitting nervously. Some of the girls huddled together, holding hands protectively.

A small group of students came in, but the classroom never surpassed 35 students. It would be a quiet display, much more dignified for Clove.

Cato wondered if Clove still despised him. They hadn't had a full conversation in months and any time it seemed they would, she'd bolt. What made everything even more bleak was that bags of trail mix kept on coming. Still, things weren't the same. There were no more notes, no more ribbons adorning the transparent bags, just a black twist.

That first bag after their falling out had left him in a state of grave hesitation. He'd wondered to himself then if she'd poisoned the mix in retaliation. That had staved him off for a few extra days until he inevitably caved. When a few more days passed and he realized it hadn't been tainted, that only had fed the growing weight in his chest.

Now, as Cato watched Clove make her way to the center of the room to begin the demonstration, he could only wonder if she'd be able to replicate her match against Dicey. Her sparring partner was a boy from her age cohort who was even taller than he was. He was also moderately muscular, but at least no more than most Clove's age.

As the demonstration commenced, Clove's instructors introduced them both. "On our left, is Clove Holloway, a third grader and level III. To our right is Lyon Owens, a fourth grader, also a level II."

So, that explained it. He was an older student in cohort 64.

The hand-to-hand combat began with a set of punches on Lyon's end. Clove made an art of evasion, dodging his blows effortlessly, though the last one grazed her left cheek. A change of strategy enabled her to go on the offensive as she ducked and then directed her right fist into his stomach. Lyon arched forward in response, catching himself, then turning and thrusting his fist at her neck.

Such an effort succeeded and he used that to his advantage to knock her to the ground. He then began an assault against her teeth, the side of her face, almost going for her eyes before an instructor admonished against that.

Clove only laid for a moment, but it was enough to cake her face in blood. She struggled to breath and rolled away, picking herself up. As she rose, Lyon's face contorted into sick ferocity. "Why won't you give up?" he demanded, going for her abdomen, but making successive impact with her shoulder-blade instead.

Clove closed in on herself into a defensive curl. Lyon stared, unsure, and the hit was swift. Clove motioned her hands into an intersection at the wrist mark and then swung outwards in a harsh gesture. Clove's arms then smacked Lyon's face and he fell to the mat.

She rolled up into an offensive position and snatched him by the collar of his shirt. In a move that surprised Cato, Clove managed to throw Lyon over her shoulder into the opposite direction. It was an impressive move, but perhaps not the best for this fight.

Clove took a second to catch her breath.

Bad decision, Cato thought. Lyon tackled her to the ground aggressively and began to punch her in the face. His pride had been shot, Cato figured, because that was all that could explain his sickening fascination with the way Clove's nose moved out-of-place as his continue to hit it with his fists.

Shit.

Lyon continued his pattern, unrelenting. Hadn't his point been made?

"Get off of her, freak!" Cato demanded aloud, surprising himself. Using this inertia, he ran past the crowd and pulled Lyon off of her. The boy looked up. Cato gave him an expression of absolute revulsion and carried Clove away from the ring.

The instructors appeared vexed, but called for the next two students.

Clove was gasping for air, coughing harshly, and Cato couldn't think. What the hell was he supposed to do? Nero could help. Nero could, but by the time they found him, if they found him, what if it was too late?

It was sink or swim.

He rushed into a bathroom, not really sure which gender it belonged to, and set Clove on the sink counter. Her breathing hadn't improved and everything about her appearance hurt — swollen cheeks, blood gushing from her displaced nose, and her wild, wild hair. Everything was wrong and so out of his place. Cato ran a hand through his hair, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks as his hand trembled.

"I'm sorry," he cried out. "I'm so sorry."

Her hazel eyes found him. She started to speak, but began coughing instead.

"They shouldn't have let him do that!" Cato said, outraged.

"Why do you care?" she asked in a croak. "You hate me anyways."

His throat was stuck, his chest felt heavy and remorse sat in a pit of his stomach. Clove's tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing messily with all the blood. It made him slightly sick.

Cato pulled her forward and wrapped his arms around her. He brought the crown of her head to his nose and with a stilted breath, murmured, "I could never ever hate you, Clove."

It was a succinct statement to sum up all the grief he'd carried for the past several months. He soaked a paper towel with water and began rubbing the blood of her face. It took a few good times, but he worked patiently to do the best he could without further injuring her. Without all the blood to mar her face, he was a bit uneasy of what had become of her nose.

He offered her his hand in hopping off the counter and then the pair traveled towards the medical office in the Annex. All things considered, the prognosis was good. Her nose would heal, but it'd be slow, and it would be difficult.

As the two exited the Annex, Clove's nose now bandaged, she grabbed Cato's arm. She gathered herself, and said, "You shouldn't have helped me."

Cato was instantly offended at the assessment and opened his mouth to retaliate, but Clove quickly lifted her arm towards his mouth and held his lips together. In a softer voice, she remarked, "I'm glad you did."

When she released his lips, he looked dumbfounded. She walked ahead of him, then turned back to him with a huff, "Get that stupid look off your face."

Cato couldn't help himself, though. 

"You coming or what?" she asked. She gave up waiting and took him by the hand, dragging him into the sunset.

Clove didn't hate him. There may have been hope for him yet.


	5. The Lesson

Beginning is easy. Continuing is hard."  
-Japanese proverb

* * *

_February, Hunger Games Year 67_

"You're home late," Mars said, when he entered their home. Cato closed the front door behind him. He shrugged, pulling off his training shoes and stuffing them into his forest green duffel bag, then zipping it up. "How did your friend's demonstration go?"

Cato flopped on to the couch. "She's not my friend," Cato paused, frustrated and unsure.

"She's been singlehandedly feeding for over two years. If that's not enough for you to want someone as your friend, I don't think I want in on that, buddy." Mars said, his green eyes lit up with amusement. With a teasing grin, he added, "Hey, maybe she's who you're made for."

Cato stared him down with thinly-veiled irritation. "Clove's nine," he reminded Mars.

"Oh, Cato," his brother said, with sarcastic sympathy, "No one told you? So are you."

In response, Cato gave his brother a mean scowl and crossed his arms.

Mars laughed at him. "Chances are when you get older you might begin to feel different."

"Noooo," Cato corrected, drawing out the word as if his brother were mentally-delayed, "When I'm older I'll be in preparatory training to become tribute and Clove will probably be the last thing on my mind."

"If you say so. Take my word for it, Cato, a little kindness goes a long way when you've been starved of it so long."

"She'll probably drop out by then, anyways," Cato said, unsure of how to piece together his brother's other comments. "She's not very good."

"Yeah, but when people are meant to be together an invisible red string ties them together."

An invisible teal string, maybe, Cato contemplated. "Where's Ryden, then?" He frowned, giving his brother's torn jersey a perplexed once-over.

"We had an altercation in which I was the winner," Mars replied, shortly.

Cato cut that conversation thread short, because chances were it wasn't going anywhere good. If Mars wanted to cut his losses, he definitely wasn't thinking like the winner he claimed to be.

"You're really lucky the Annex gives you all the free supplies for being on the Selection Committee, because you don't take very good care of your stuff," Cato murmured.

"When you're in the kind of training I am, we'll see what you think then." They laid in soothing silence before Mars added, "That's if you get that far. The demonstration instructors weren't very happy with you and from what they did tell me, I think they're under the impression that I'm your keeper or something. I'm not. I hope they get that. I'm not your mother."

"You'd be a better mother than—" Cato began, before faltering at a punch to his gut. He was barely able to wheeze out a disdainful "Mars!"

"What have I told you, Cato? What?" Mars snapped, his green eyes gleaming dangerously. "Don't be so blatant in your disregard."

Cato turned the other cheek, nursing his battered pride. "I was just trying to say that she..."

"Are we going to go through this again? You are old enough to know by now than to be so careless in the way you speak. It's like you don't want to make it to reaping age."

"Why do you even care?" Cato seethed, sending Mars a murderous look. "I probably won't anyways! That's what they want, right? Maybe they can start over and have a better son next time!"

"Cato," Mars warned, with a tone of finality in his voice.

The boys stopped at the sound of the door unlocking. Immediately, both stood up straight. Cato grabbed his assessment card from the table, and clutched it firmly in place as their mother entered the room. His mother's blonde hair was wound unnaturally in curls. She placed her work satchel on the counter and looked at both boys with a sharp expression. She brushed a bit of silica dust away, looking steely and unimpressed with the both of them.

"Welcome home, mother," Mars greeted, politely. He tried to smile, before allowing the expression to fall from his face.

"Assessment cards, boys," she demanded coolly, extending her left hand out expectantly. Mars avoided his mother's gaze, instead fixating on the frame on the wall behind her. He endured a great deal of hesitation in allowing her the 6x6 card, working to her gaze. Cato thrust his hand forward and Mrs. Elroy snatched his card with a look of contempt at her youngest son.

Their mothers glanced over the stock cards and looked up to Mars coldly. "You were bested by your friend in evasive and defensive combat again? Care to explain to me how this boy Ryden manages to keep you constantly trailing behind him?"

"It was a fluke, but just to cover my bases I went ahead and scheduled privates for defensive combat later in the week to brush up on more maneuvers."

"And still it remains that you are performing dismally in long-range weaponry," their mother critiqued.

"I'm doing better at hand-to-hand combat, m—" Cato offered. "I'm getting really good at swordsmanship, too."

"You're third in your cohort for swordsmanship. That means two people can best you and really all they need is one."

Cato grew sullen at her words. "I'm the youngest student in my cohort! How am I supposed to win if I'm so much smaller than everyone else? Not letting me eat makes it a lot harder to get any stronger."

Mars quickly moved in front of him, pulling his wrist into a stronghold. Cato held a breath.

"Oh, Cato darling, you misunderstand. You aren't weak because we do not overindulge you," their mother said, sweetly. Mars kept his cover. "You are weak because you are not strong-willed enough. Mars maintains same the regimen as you, after all, and he performs much better for the most part."

"Mom, he—" Mars started, in a wave of nerves.

"You may be terribly disappointing," their mother ignored him, lifting Mars chin up to her, "but at least you don't make excuses."

Cato began shaking, still frustrated. Mars' grip on his wrist has deepened and it took all Cato had not to cry out.

"You are dismissed," their mother said to Mars, returning to her icy tone as she turned to him. "I expect top marks next week. Do not embarrass me."

As soon as Mars released his wrist, Cato trembled. Mars squeezed his hand gently in return, before leaving for his own room. The walls around Cato seemed to close in as their mother filled the gap that been occupied by Mars. "I— I..." Cato began, anxiously.

His mother pulled a small rod from her pocket, which she was able to extend by dragging the top piece outwards. With a self-satisfied expression she asked, "Cato, darling, why ever do you believe we're starving you?" His mother's expression was one of exhaustive contempt.

Cato stood, bewitched, trapped. If he answered her, she could lash out. If he continued to avoid her, she definitely would.

Her green eyes sparkled, glimmering intensely with anticipation. He lowered his head. What could he do? His stomach churned and the dizziness returned. "I'm sorry," he cried out, biting his cheek anxiously.

The minute the words escaped his lips, he knew they were a mistake. He figured that at this point he'd do anything to avoid tears and seal his fate.

"Oh, darling," his mother said, sweetly. A thwack sound resounded as the yellow rod made contact with the side of his face, leaving a red mark in its wake. Cato fought the instinct to sooth his cheek.

"Now I will prepare you dinner and you will stop insisting that I starve you. Honestly, it's undignified to be so histrionic."

His mother left him standing there entirely bewildered. Cato swallowed nervously and brought his school bag into the kitchen. As he sat down, his mother unlocked the cupboards and fished around for a pot. Cato pulled a textbook from his bag and turned to his assignment. He grabbed his school notebook, a notebook with a piece of white paper taped to the inside cover with the words 'good luck today' inscribed.

Every few minutes he would turn back to his mother and watch as she worked with a smile. He wondered to himself what it would take to make such a look a regular occurrence in this house. Lost in his thoughts, he never saw it coming.

He screamed out in response to the burns spreading across his skin and fell to the ground. As he made impact with the floor, he yelped again. His mother's voice grew distorted, but he could hear the condescension. "Since you're obviously not too keen with your strategy courses, here are few tips: Never never turn your back to a potential danger, and remember darling, everyone is a potential danger."

She sauntered off with an amused cackle, and although Cato would have liked to do nothing but lie there forever, he begrudgingly worked to lift himself off the soaked tiles. He fell to the floor again, choking a sob, but he persisted. He took a heavy breath and dragged himself on all fours towards his bedroom, though it took fifteen minutes to move twenty feet. As soon as he made the carpet, he passed out, letting grief take him.

* * *

 

Cato woke sometime later, realizing that he was in his bed. What happened? he wondered. Had he fallen asleep doing schoolwork? His eyes fluttered open, and he lifted his back, suddenly overwhelmed by pain. Biting down on his lip, he stalled in place.

"It's going to hurt for awhile, Cato. Try to relax."

Mars' voice was restrained, with his tone holding a slight rasp to it that reminded him of when Nero had had a cold a few months back. Cato remained still, focusing on the wall in front of him, where a framed poster from the 62nd Hunger Games hung ominously. The close up of Enobaria Jamison, with her teeth sunk into the throat of her last contender made his stomach clench in that moment.

"You're not relaxing," his brother reprimanded.

Cato closed his eyes and Mars' subsequent words become more difficult to comprehend, but the hand stroking his hair soothed him. In several minutes' time, his brother's hand trembled and he knew his brother was crying as he spoke, "I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to protect you. I would do anything I could to take you away from here."

Cato felt tears blurring his vision, too. If Mars couldn't help him, then no one could.

* * *

As soon as the alarm dismissed their class the next day, Dicey was at his side. They trudged along as they left the school building behind them.

As they walked together in silence, Cato considered how Dicey had compared the two of them when challenging Clove the previous day. He'd never contemplated the similarities, but Dicey was right. They were both small for their age, though Cato had more muscle. In other regards they largely diverted; Dicey had reddish-brown hair that was longer than the rest of theirs. He also had a whole spatter of freckles, much like Clove did.

"You don't look good, Cato. Did the trainers discipline you for helping Clove?" Dicey asked, quietly.

"No," Cato said, looking at the open dirt road path that laid in front of them. "I left before they could."

Dicey spun into place in front of him and stole the duffel bag from his hands, walking a bit quicker now. He looked back at Cato with a kind expression.

"I'm not allowed to attend any more of the Year 64 showcases anymore. My grandfather says there's no point in studying what you've already mastered and my mom always listens to him, even though he's a jerk."

"He thinks you've mastered hand-to-hand combat?" Cato asked, his backpack bouncing painfully against his burns as he began to laugh. The sun warmed the two as they left the path and descended into the heart of District Two West.

"He would have lost his mind if he knew I lost to someone like Clove," Dicey said, rearranging the weight of his and Cato's bags in his arms as they made their way past a crowd of workers on drinking hour.

"You don't seem upset she bested you," Cato responded, elbowing him slightly. At Dicey's wince, Cato created a respectable gap of space between the two of them.

"Why should I be? It'll never happen again, that's for sure. Besides, she taught me a few things I needed to re-learn. One, it's best not to underestimate your enemy. Two, there's more to close combat than just your fists and kicks. And three, that while it's important to know your enemy's movements, it's much more important to know where their head's at."

"Is that why Nero tends to you so much? because you're not such an idiot underneath it all?" Cato inquired.

Dicey's only response was to stick out his tongue. "No, Nero's just the best strategist of us all. He knows the easiest way to become a threat to someone is to dig yourself under their skin."


	6. The Novel

While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die.  
\- Leonardo Da Vinci

* * *

**Recap** / Cato and his elder brother discussed the relationship between him and Clove, with Cato unsure of exactly what the state of their relationship was. Mrs. Elroy arrived home, demanding the two boys' assessment cards before chastising Cato about his unsatisfactory performance. Cato then had an outburst in which he suggested that his lacking performance was due to the strict dietary regimen his parents has place him on. Irritated, Mrs. Elroy promised to prepare him food and Cato began his schoolwork. Within minutes, his mother assaulted him with a pot of boiling water and left him there with an important message: everyone is a potential danger.

* * *

_February, Hunger Games Year 67_

Clove had been staring at the faded target in disbelief for several minutes. She turned her head to the side and squinted her eyes, but the image remained. Had her dagger really hit the center for the third time in a row? It all seemed so unreal. So there eight-year-old Clove Holloway reluctantly stood.

She bristled in her indecision, working to pluck up the nerve to make another attempt.

Finally, testing her good fortune, Clove made another throw. A jolt ran through her heart when the dagger again hit dead center. That's all she needed to take the momentum and spin her gears into motion.

Some time later Clove made Cato out in a reflection of the glass door. He was out of his training attire for the day and instead donned a long-sleeved orange shirt and blue denim jeans. She didn't bother to acknowledge him as he entered into the space she alone had been occupying.

After a full minute of unbecoming silence, Clove called to him.

"Whatcha doin' here?" she asked, her back still to him.

"I'm not ready to go home yet," Cato answered, his voice soft and wary. At his reluctance in his tone, Clove turned to meet his eyes.

He remained in place, holding his school bag by a single strap. "You mind?"

Clove shook her head slightly as the boy slid comfortably against the glass wall. As Cato dug through his backpack, she turned back to her target, aimed the dagger once again, and released it. Sixteen hits in total.

Cato raised his head from out of his book bag and pulled out a small, dusty novel with a rather worn cover. He glanced at the target curiously and then redirected his eyes back to the petite, pig-tailed girl and murmured with slight awe, "Nice work, Clovey," before returning to his book.

* * *

Cato soon found himself consumed as he read the work of fiction; It told the tale of a historic time period before the existence of Panem. The novel's setting described the western part of North America, what Panem had once been before it had developed into its current state of glory. Cato began creating maps in his ruminations, wondering how close the setting was to District Two West. 

" _District Two's climate is so diverse because of its origins,_ " their teacher had said earlier in the day. " _Our district is composed of what were once separate states formerly recognized as Arizona and Utah. These boundaries were eradicated and reconstructed in the formation of Panem. The same could be said nationwide, where geological occurrences affected the topography our country._ "

The outlaws in the novel were vicious, constantly drinking, swearing, and pillaging. Instead of swords or spears, though, they capitalized on guns are their weapon of choice. Hm. Cato shook his head and considered that maybe he had overestimated the capabilities of the novel's men. It didn't take much skill to manage a firearm, he lamented. Then again, he couldn't say that for certain, as he'd never seen one in person.

"Hey Clove," Cato called out, looking up to her with wonder. "You ever seen a gun in real life before?"

She turned back to him and shrugged. "Mhmm. My papa works for the military."

That explained a bit, he thought. "But they can use other weapons sides' guns, right?"

Clove frowned, sizing him with ire. "Of course they do," she said, turning the other cheek. "The military people trained like us when they were our age, but guns are faster. That's why they use them. Papa says no point wasting time on worthless traitors."

"Okay," Cato replied, musing over her perspective. 

He quickly fell back into the novel and Clove resumed her practice.

The central character in the novel, James Phillips, was traveling to the Old West to mine gold. Cato wondered if it was supposed to be as dangerous as quarrying stone. James Phillips wanted to save enough money and then bring his expecting wife and young son to settle in a place they'd called California. 

" _California was even more west and it was very large, its length spanning both the combined length of Utah and Arizona. Part of what California was is now a neighboring district,_ " their teacher had said.

Of course, James Phillips hadn't been very bright. He was constantly conned out of his earnings as he pursued success, which made Cato want to fling the book as far away from himself as possible. Still, his persistence was at least in line with District Two core values. 

Cato brought his knees to his chest, placing the book beside himself, and watched Clove intently. Clove's endurance slowly ran thin, resulting in less and less accuracy with each shot. Cato could relate; It was getting difficult to keep his concentration, so instead he fixated on the floor until it darkened slowly and then vanished all-together. 

* * *

Cato was fast asleep by the time Clove decided to formally retire for the day. She left the glass room briefly to redress in regular clothing and returned with her messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

Taking a seat across from the slumbering boy, Clove opened her bag and withdrew a smashed sandwich. She nibbled quietly and swallowed when she noticed his features tighten as he nearly woke. He looked to be in an unbearable state of pain from what she could read from the look on his face. She wondered if it'd be better for him to take a medical leave now rather than later. It was tricky. While she loathed him for his weakness, she found she loathed herself even more for not finding it a detracting quality.

Grumbling in self-chastisement, she moved a stray blond lock out of his face and studied him. He was a pathetic sight to behold, shivering despite the redness in his skin. Who fell asleep so early in the day? The clock hadn't even struck six! 

"Cato," she whispered as quietly as she could. Cato moved slightly as his body emitted a yawn and he blunk the sleep out of his eyes. He stretched his body and wiped stubbornly at his face. He frowned at her and she sent him a dirty glare in return.

"Here, take it," she said, offering him some of her sandwich. Cato devoured it instantly. "The last time I made a sandwich for someone else was when my mama was pregnant with Magnie, but every time I look at you I feel like you could use some more sandwiches."

He immediately took it for the criticism that it was; Cato scowled, "What are you talking about?" Then he added for articulate effect, "Shut up, Clove!"

Still, he struggled to maintain the same animosity as he lurched forward, his anger suddenly replaced by a look of acute nausea. Cato held his stomach and looked ready to regurgitate everything he'd just ate onto the tile before him.

"I didn't do anything—" she said immediately, already defensive.

Cato shook his head, averting eye contact. "I know. It's okay. It's what happens every time I eat meat."

"Why don't you eat any meat? I don't think that's smart for someone training in hand-to-hand and swordsmanship," she said, rooting through her things until she found the folded paper bag. "If you get too sick, you can use that."

"I don't get a lot of opportunities to. So I've never been able to hold much down when I do and now the smell of it hot makes me queasy. I eat it when I can, but that's not a lot."

Clove handed him an orange that he accepted graciously, "Picked em myself."

"Well, I like grapes the best, but they're really expensive. Apples are good, too."

Cato pulled the skin apart and took his first bite. He relished the juiciness of the orange and messily ate the whole thing while Clove watched him with a touch of morbidity. Releasing a stilted breath, Cato confessed quietly. "My parents don't let me eat, Clove. That's why I'm the worst in the whole cohort."

"You're not the worst in your cohort," she corrected immediately, pulling unconsciously at her soiled shoelaces. Clove didn't dare to call out the injustice of it all. "Ah!" she grimaced, her nose still in a torrid state.

He gave her a warm smile at the apparent hesitance, before returning to a state of neutrality. "Don't look at me like that. It's the worst when people pity you."

"When it's your turn, when it's your chance, you'll show them all just how dumb they were for doing that," Clove told him, her eyes glimmering.

Cato couldn't mask his glimpse of surprise quickly enough, allowing her to give him an easy grin. She continued, "It's different with you, because you'll have more than just the training. You will have survived more than anyone could imagine. It's like a lifelong Hunger Games, sorta."

In the distance, the sun began to set, and the two watched it together. Clove turned away and thought aloud. "I'll never let them underestimate me and if they do they'll find themselves on the wrong side of knife. I'll turn them into a real piece of art like Athena Mansfield."

* * *

Though his doubts and insecurities outweighed the gold he'd place on her in a fight, Cato couldn't help but to admire Clove's gumption. They sat together in silence, leaning against the glass wall as they watched students come and go and as the glow began to fade.

One day he would win. One day he would have a home in Victor's Village and mother would finally see just how hard he'd worked for her. He'd ask her respectfully to consider leaving Mars' home in Victor's Village and come to live in his own. He hoped his father would join and help them both pursue their victor's talents. Once he won, he knew his parents would dote on him with the bridling affection for bringing pride to not only to his mother, but to the whole of District Two.

They'd recognize that he could do it and do it with glory. 

He couldn't wait for the day to come.

And if the other tributes dared to stand in his way? They'd be dead before they made a single move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone left a comment a while back asking me to continue this story. Technically, it's complete at its original site, which is fanfiction.net / So you can find it a little clean-cut under the user name Lilac Alyssa Halliwell. I still read comments, so if you do read it there, please leave me a review and say Hello!


	7. The Vindicator

Se non è vero, è ben trovato.

(If it's a lie, at least it's well put)

\- Italian proverb

* * *

Recap / A few days after Mrs. Elroy's assault on Cato, he became evasive of home and had begun staying later at the annex. To fill his time, he spent the latter portion of the day by observing Clove throw knives and reading a novel on the Old West. In doing so, Cato discovered that District II lied where the states of Arizona and Utah once were. After Clove offered him some of her sandwich, she realized how poor quality his diet was that he couldn't even eat meat without getting sick. The two then discussed their aspirations as victors of the games.

* * *

_July, Hunger Games Year 68_

* * *

Fourteen-year-old Ellery Watson sauntered down the centralized pathway of District Two's Training Annex with a rather impressive amount of grace for a girl her age. When the teen thought of her sister — ten years and counting — and the way her honey-hued locks constantly fell in her face, she wondered if this all was just a ruse.

It had to be. She couldn't imagine any alternative.

In her poor sister's defense, the value of her so-called education at the Annex seemed to be on a rather steep decline. This place was much better suited for street dogs she thought as she watched the mangy group of boys pass her. They droned on cheerfully about meaningless droll that only pin-pricked her nerves even further.

'The things you've reduced me to, Pax,' Ellery thought, exhaling, and putting herself into motion.

She immediately narrowed in on the ring leader. Paxton had said this boy was the best of his cohort.

"One of you wouldn't happen to be Felix Grey?" she inquired with a sweet chirp, quelling the tense flush coursing her skin. The group turned to her with a diverse array of responses. The shortest boy, with a mop of reddish-brown hair watched her intensely. The second-tallest, the tawny-skinned boy with scruffy black hair and chestnut brown eyes looked up at her with an unbecoming smirk. His carefree and confident face quickly caught her attention, and while still fresh-faced and sharp, he became pliable in her hands.

His blond-haired friend and the other boy, the tallest, a fair-haired brunet watched attentively as he stepped forward.

"I knew climbing the ranks came with unwritten benefits," he said, flirtatiously.

Ellery barely suppressed her repulsion at the twelve-year-old, replacing her look of bewilderment with an artful maneuver of sweet seduction. "You little ones have us all in a stir, you know that?" She asked, "That Clove girl from Year 64 especially. She and my sister are the same age and my poor sister was absolutely heartbroken when she heard Holloway tell her friends that you boys were are all prattle, but no proof. Terribly upsetting for my poor sister. She knows better than anyone that with you young ones word certainly gets around fast."

The blond boy was the only child to form a nuanced reaction, which was one of immediate skepticism. The others had only ascertained that the statement was an attempt to challenge their abilities.

Felix, the boy Paxton spoke most of, stepped forward again with a gutsy affront. "I'm the highest-ranking student in my cohort! Say it again if you're so sure."

Hook, line, and sinker. Ellery gave him a derisive smile. "I'm only relaying what I've been told. If you're so sure I'm misinformed, you'd do best to challenge the source. Only Clove Holloway can take back what she's put forward."

With a moment of contemplation, Felix's face softened. "No," he tempered his breath and shook his head. "If I go and shut her down, there's no coming back from that." He turned to his friends and asked them, "Maybe I should go talk to her."

Ellery scoffed. "If she didn't bring your abilities into question on her own, you certainly have."

"A skilled candidate has more tactical maneuvers than their fists," the tallest boy challenged, drawing Felix back. "Fist-fighting with Clove wouldn't solve anything. It'll just create more problems, Lix."

"What are your rankings, then?" She challenged in return. "It's easy to make this choice for him when you have less at stake."

"12 of 97," the boy with reddish-brown hair piped up. He failed to hide an unnerved flush, freckles dotting his face, though his eyes caught her curiously.

"17th," the tallest boy responded. He watched her as well, with wary distrust, though their attention quickly converged on the blond boy.

"Well?" Ellery demanded.

He balked at her in return, "What's your ranking, then?"

Tension diffused for a brief moment and the boys loosened their posture.

"Fourth of 72," she said, breezily. "Though we're much more efficient in Cohort 60. You all like to waste valuable time tearing each other down, but our cohort challenges one another in a collaborative effort. My sister says Holloway is the top-ranking girl in their cohort now. She's become a comeback kid so fast I can see why she'd think you're all talk. What have you been doing while she's been shooting right on past?"

Felix opened his mouth to counter her argument, but stopped when he realized she wasn't quite done. "You might be bigger than she is, but she's seems to be quite a bit smarter."

Ellery didn't miss their expression of surprise. They didn't know, she realized with sudden satisfaction, before she continued. "I'm sure her comments are manageable for now. She's only a flicker, but you wouldn't want it to become a flame. Like I said, you all waste time tearing each other down. In a situation like that, this could be seen as a weakness, as being soft to the touch."

"We aren't soft, cunt," the boy with reddish-brown hair snarled. Joy bubbled in Ellery's chest. Now, this was fun.

"You hardly can be bothered with defending your honor," she turned to the blond boy who hadn't yet spoken.

The blond boy stood on edge, barely restraining himself.

"It's Clove we should be after, Cato. We need to shut this down before it spreads," one of them corrected. Cato hardly retreated, a feral madness in his eyes. Felix plucked him backward, agreeing with the other boy, and reoriented him in the opposite direction.

If Ellery didn't know any better, she'd have thought they knew exactly where little Clove would be.

This was going to be good.

* * *

"You're not supposed to run in the hallways!" Nero called between breathes. No one's pace slowed and his words went unanswered. Why did Clove always do this?

Why couldn't she be like the other girls in her cohort? They could watch demonstrations in a happy, mediated cluster and enjoy their meals together in cohesion. No, Clove was never one to obey rules of any form, or play nice, and so of course he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

That's why Clove was willing to initiate fights with older students, even though it was strictly forbidden. That's why she'd throw knives without care, even when it was against their rules to remove weapons from classrooms. That's why she was willing to—

Nero froze, his eyes widening in horror.

That's why she was willing to turn on two completely separate training machines at once, creating a barrage of mini darts and precision arrows aiming directly for her.

Holy fucking shit. This was not going to end well. Clove was going to die, and if she died,  _he'd be dead._

Nero ducked, throwing himself over Clove protectively, and pushing her from the line of fire. A dart barely skimmed his left forearm and he pushed her underneath himself. "Stay down!"

Dicey looked perplexed as he scanned for an opening. Finally, he charged in, dodging several arrows and mini darts in an impressive gymnastic endeavor as he maneuvered himself to the machine control. Dicey caught his breath and jumped upwards to turn the control mechanism off.

The mats were littered in the weapons. Cato brushed them aside to create a path for them.

"Are you okay?" he asked, trying to catch his breath.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I knew-" Clove began to defend to herself.

And then Nero saw red. He'd had it with Clove fucking Holloway. As she turned her cheek and opened her eyes, he barely resisted the impulse to spit in her face. The impulse to punch her in the face? That he didn't quell as much. When he caught the vulnerable expression affixed to her face, he could hardly stand it it enraged him so much. So, Nero went for the gold and hit her again.

He pulled back, feeling satisfied.

If only he could unsaddle himself from this burden. Every day it rested on his shoulders and he didn't know how much he could take.

Cato cleared a way for others. Before they could rise, her body was stolen from him and the others descended on her relentlessly. Each of them was punching, kneeing, hitting, and even pulling at Clove's growing hair.

Though she attempted to fight them off in a catch of breath, she'd quickly be slammed down to mat and detracted from her attempts to communicate by a growing collective of aches and injuries. Clove was able to make out a screech, but not much else. Dicey seemed to make sure of that as he went for the nose, the teeth, her cheeks.

Time seemed endless after a while. He lost count of wreckage and to say Clove looked worse for the wear was an understatement. Accompanying his mother once on a work-related venture he'd seen brutalized quarry workers appear better after a rock slide. The mats were slick with her blood, wounds covering every unclothed surface — her neck, her face, arms, teeth, knees. Sweat and tears struck down the side of her face.

Felix caught his eyes as he attempted to re-regulate his own breathing.

Finally someone called out, "I think we're done here."

Nero felt dizzy and too dazed to process who must've said it, but as he gave Clove one last look-over, his confidence swelled and he knew. If he could do this, he could do anything. He could make his first kill, take one's last breath, and bring only the greatest honor to District Two.

After all, if he could decimate his own family then what would keep him from putting a much less worthy stranger into their hollow grave?

But in the end, little of any of this mattered, as what followed next truly caught him off guard. "I am not weak!" Cato called out.

Nero couldn't say he wholly agreed. It appeared, however, that Cato was slowly learning. That's why Nero wasn't surprised when he heard a snap and saw that Clove's wrist— her throwing wrist —was a mangled mess.

And then his bearings returned to him.

_Shit._

What the fuck had he just done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has always been my least favorite chapter, tbh, but it's such a catalyst in everyone's development that it's sort of a vortex that's difficult to work around. Oh well. 
> 
> PS - I gave Nero my birthday for whatever reason and this is his first glimpse in the limelight.


	8. The Design

"The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his."

\- General George Patton

* * *

**Recap** / Fourteen-year-old Ellery Watson utilized the strength of the strongest boy in the year 63 cohort, Felix Grey, as well as his friends Dicey, Nero, and Cato by claiming that Clove Holloway had been telling other students that the boys were weak. Outraged by this slander, the boys sought Clove out just in time to save her from her own recklessness. However, they quickly went to work proving that they weren't weak, with Cato putting the finishing touches on the whole scene by stomping on Clove's throwing wrist, effectively putting her out of commission for the time being.

* * *

_July, Hunger Games Year 68_

At the Annex reputation changed day-to-day. You could excel for a rather long stretch, then slip tragically in the rankings at a moment's notice. Clove considered as much as she lay morosely, staring contemplatively at the ceiling of her medical suite. She'd encountered relative foot traffic since her attack — her mother, mostly, and her aunt, Ebony, then Magnilda, her younger sister, and one of her field instructors, who'd been perhaps less encouraging than she'd anticipated.

So, when Paxton Watson's older sister appeared before her, Clove only mustered a blank expression. Ellery's long sandy brown hair was styled in an impossibly intricate manner unsuitable to any efficient workout Clove could imagine so something told her the teen wasn't just casually strolling through Medical because she had time to kill between classes. "You've got the wrong room," she told Ellery, nearly quiet as a mouse.

That only drew Ellery closer. As she narrowed the gap between them, Clove was able to get a better catch of the subtle nuances in the older girl's bone structure. She was lean, but well-built, as if every muscle had been worked with exact precision to achieve such an outcome.

"I can't believe they actually did it," Ellery remarked finally, appearing self-congratulatory in her disbelief. "I can't believe that honestly worked!"

Clove cocked her head to the side, "If you want your own bed, you'll need to check in with the day nurse." She then frowned, "But I don't know how much help they'll be since you've lost your marbles and keep talking to yourself."

Ellery further approached Clove, leading the ten-year-old to clasp the blanket draped across her bed with a stern hand.

"You made the unfortunate mistake of spraining Pax's arm," Ellery responded, her vain façade vanishing. She moved closer with a vicious appraisal lingering on her face.

"The only mistake I made is not breaking it," Clove argued back, scrunching her nose in an unpleasant manner. Ellery paid her little attention and continued forward. Clove gave her pocket knife a firm squeeze before threatening, "Get any closer and you will be my first kill. I don't care what the rules say!"

Ellery exhaled a cynical, caustic laugh. Her eyes narrowed as she pulled Clove towards her by a clump of her dark hair. "You're not the only one with a signature weapon, baby doll. If I decide to eliminate you, it'll be clean-cut. Legal, too."

With an uncoordinated motion, Clove nicked Ellery's forearm with the pocket knife. Ellery only smirked at the developing trail of blood running down her arm. "They're children, they can't help it, but I have to say those Year 63 boys will buy anything you sell them."

"Then it's really not all that impressive that you conned them," Clove retorted, bored as she began turning away.

Ellery released her, but continued her tirade. "My folks have always said it was a waste to come here. They don't think I could possibly learn anything here I couldn't learn from a more esteemed center back home in East. They're wrong, though. I've learned so much in the last day alone."

She paused and then presented a question, "Why put forth the effort to create something when you can outsource the work and save yourself the time?"

The way she driveled on, Clove would have thought Ellery was there on Paxton's behalf, but it became increasingly apparent that this was a sideshow, her slice of life routine. At least Paxton was direct, cut-throat in her criticisms: ' _You'll never win. You don't even have any friends — not here and definitely not in the Games! Who'd want wretched little Clove in their alliance?_ '

This, however, was complete insanity. To Clove it only further explained why Paxton was such a nasty little fucker.

"I've never heard anyone here openly admit they can't win on their own," a voice chastised from the door. Ellery lost her cool expression at being caught, and they continued. "If you ever do manage to volunteer, we'll all have a good time watching you get gutted in the arena."

Ellery's expression blackened immediately. She sneered at Clove and strut out of the room with arrogant eyes towards the distance, but not before pushing Cato to the floor. Clove suppressed a snort at Cato's clumsy attempt to recollect himself, dusting off his attire. Smoothing himself out, he gave her a benevolent smirk.

"What do you want?" Clove demanded once the initial shock wore thin. Her irritation was palpable and though he had four inches on her, she found she no longer feared him or any of the rest. They'd done the worst they could. She gave him a once-over and sulked.

Cato cocked his head to the side, considering, "She called me stupid."

"I can see why you're surprised; It's probably the only truthful thing she's said all year."

"Clove," he warned.

"You can't keep trying to kill me and then apologize every time you realize how dumb of an idea that might be!"

Her hand remained firmly attached to the pocket knife.

Cato looked away, shamefully. "She said—she said she heard you saying to some friend that you thought we were weak… that's what she said," Cato replied, soft and unsure. He took a seat beside her bed, "And we're not, Clove. We're not weak. We had to defend our honor. We couldn't let this spread. It'd ruin everything."

"Wow, she's right. You really are stupid, Cato," She snapped brazenly, then added with a scowl, "I don't have any friends! So even if I did think you were weak, who would I tell?"

Tears welled up in Clove's eyes, the loathing and ferocity lingering, but he held his ground.

"Of course you have friends," he said dismissively. "We're your friends, duh."

The foolproof tactic fell short as she replied with disdain, "You guys are not my friends and you never have been, so you guys can leave me the fuck alone now."

"Clove-"

"You remember when we were really little and you threatened my family?" she asked, glaring at him.

"I-"

"I never told you, but my father's a military interrogator. Do you know what they do?" she asked him, a callous look in her eyes. He shook his head, feeling unease at the way her restrained anger choked the air. "They torture people for information."

She gave him a sickening smile. "I'm done with all of you and how you treat me. If I have to get papa's help to make that clear, I will, and you make sure you share that with Dicey and Felix, too."

"But-"

"Shut up," Clove snapped. "I'm serious. You better tell them, Cato, and if any of you ever speak to me again, it's game over."

In that moment, Cato Elroy grieved the loss of Clove Holloway as he knew her. He continued to look down, but nodded faintly. "Okay," he replied, softly, still stunned, and gave her one last look before leaving her hospital room.

* * *

"Well, is it possible she's lying because she's worried we'll come back and do it again?" Felix asked. He watched Cato with great interest, but the blond was too uneven to provide him a response. "Come on, focus, Cato. There's no point in getting scared over something that isn't even true."

"I know, it's just..." Cato trailed off.

"Her family has money, that's for sure. I've seen her get picked up in a car," Dicey offered.

Felix's face was contemplative and all he could manage in return was, "The only person I know with a car is Nurse Ebony. We'll have to ask Nee."

"What exactly did she say, Cato?" Dicey asked.

"She said that we're bad friends and she doesn't want us to be around anymore and that she's not afraid to have her dad come torture us if we bother her again," Cato said, shaking.

Something told Felix that wasn't a verbatim recitation of the pair's conversation, but he didn't push it. Last thing he needed was Cato drawing attention.

"I don't think it's true, Cato," Felix remarked. "If he works for the military they'd want to live closer to the base and that'd put them in North, not here in West."

Dicey piped up in disagreement, "Not if all of their family is already here."

"It seems expensive to travel back and forth so often."

"If they can afford two cars to begin with, I don't think money is a gonna stop them."

"So what if he is an interrogator?" Felix asked. "That's kinda cool, actually. I wonder if I get on her good side if she'll introduce me."

A mirthless laugh escaped Dicey's lips, "Something tells me you're the last person Clove Holloway would do a favor for, Felix."

Felix sulked, "That's probably true."

As Nero joined them, Felix turned to him, and asked, "Nee, good! Hey, your mom owns a car. How much money do you have to make to do that?"

Nero shrugged. "I don't know. My uncle gave it to her when she started working at the Annex, so probably a lot. She's been paying him back ever since in protest cause' she already feels like he does too much for her."

"Oh," Dicey frowned. "Well, that doesn't help us, then."

"Why?" Nero asked, offering part of his sandwich to Dicey.

Dicey rooted through his bag and gave him a nectarine in exchange.

"Thanks," Nero said, taking a bite. "This is a really good one, Dice."

"Well, I'm good at what I do," he joked in return.

"Real good, princess. Now shut the fuck up so we can get to the point," Felix said, flicking his forearm.

"Anyways, sorry, to answer your question, Clove doesn't want to be our friend anymore."

"She didn't mention him, actually," Cato said, speaking for the first time in several minutes.

"Really?" Felix asked.  
"Wonder what that's about," Dicey remarked.

"Just the three of us," Cato said, adding bitterly, "Guess she forgives you, Nero."

"Trust me, that's the last thing it is," Nero said, waving him off. "What does that have to do with cars, though?"

Felix leaned back against the tree covering them. "She said her father is a military torturer."

"Military interrogator," Cato corrected. "A military interrogator who tortures people. She said that we needed to fuck off and that if we didn't, she wouldn't hesitate to have her dad come find us."

"She said what?" Nero demanded, infuriated.

Cato looked at him rather sullenly. "Why are you mad? She didn't even mention you."

"Military interrogators do not work that way," Nero told the group emphatically. "They don't just come and hunt civilians, okay? They don't give a fuck about the likes of us when there are real dangers out there."

Cato laid against his book bag under the trunk of the tree and looked away.

"Well, I'll sure miss the late night phone calls and walks on the riverfront, Clove," Dicey said, rolling his eyes. "I have Callan and Halle to worry about, so I can't take any risks, even if they do deserve it for being extra terrible this week."

Felix took Cato's lead and also leaned back against the tree. "That's a pretty empty threat to me, actually, if you put it that way. So, I don't know why she thought it'd work."

Nero walked over with Dicey and dropped to the spot beside Cato. "Hey," he said, softly. "Clove's full of shit. Don't worry about her."

"It's not that," Cato murmured. "I don't think she'd hurt me even if she wanted to... she's not like that."

"Then what is it?"

"I didn't realize that I'd scared her so much that she felt she had to say something like that for me to leave her alone. We don't usually get along, but it's never been this bad. She said we were dumb for falling for Ellery's trick because she doesn't have friends and I told her that wasn't true because we're her friends. I always thought she saw it the same way, you know? But she said we were never her friend and I just... I guess I just feel like this is all my fault and I should have known better."

"Don't let her twist it around on you, Cato. Even if she didn't say any of what Ellery told us, I bet you she's thought it. So, yeah, she can be dangerous, but Clove isn't a threat."

"I don't know," Dicey replied into open air, interrupting their hushed whispers. "If her cohort is anything like ours, that might not be true. Fox can be pretty scary and she ranks just under Felix and Kyler. If Clove ranks third in her cohort, it could be a real mistake to underestimate what she can do."

Felix considered as much. Well, that certainly wasn't a mistake he was planning to make.

* * *

"You cry in your sleep, y'know," a familiar voice lulled in the distance, stealing her from the dreamy unrest. The world was spinning around her, distorted and chaotic, and Clove struggled to still it.

Clove's chest constricted and she haphazardly dug through the bed sheets to find her guarded knife. When she realized it was missing, she froze in place, holding her breath.

"Hm?" the voice questioned, confused. "Oh, yeah, I took the knife. Didn't want you thinking I was one of the figures from your nightmares and accidentally stabbing me. You can have it back when I'm done."

She turned away from his voice and nestled into the pillow. When she made the decision to stab him, it wouldn't be  _an accident_.

"I've been thinking, you know," he prattled, losing her rather early into his rant of the week. "—So, I'm gonna train you. It'll be three days a week around my privates."

Still refusing to open her eyes and acknowledge him before her, she retorted, "Didn't Cato tell you to fuck off?"

"Yeah," Felix said, sounding fascinated and disturbingly unperturbed by her threats, "You really freaked him out, H. It's so cool that your dad is an interrogator. You should have started out with that bit."

"So why won't you fuck off, then? I don't need you to train me, Fix. I'm doing fine! I could hold my own if people stopped trying to kill me every time they have a bad day."

"Hey, how come I get a nickname and no one else does?"

"Because the less time I spend with you, the better," Clove sighed, finally opening her eyes into the pitch darkness. "How long did I sleep?"

"It's four," he said, playing with the drawstring of his sweat pants.

"It's four already?" she gaped, sitting up in the bed, now very alert. "How will I catch up on my reading now?"

Immediately she extended her arms towards the floor and picked up her book bag. With a swift motion, she withdrew a heavy, black hardbound text, stifling tears as her wrist gave itself faint reminder of its poor condition.

"It's four in the morning, Holloway," Felix corrected with a stern, but doubtful expression. He carefully removed the textbook from her hand and laid it over her blanket-draped knees. "It's still dark out, look," he said, pointing to the window.

"Why do you want to train me anyways? Every time I see you you're reminding me how weak I am, so what could you possibly get out of this?" She opened her mouth to add something, but became distracted by an incessant need to scratch at her IV.

Felix gently pulled her hands away and began running his thumb over the back of her right hand. For someone so cold, she was stricken by how warm his hands were. Clove struggled against him, but he continued to hold firm. "I'm going to hold your hand so you stop scratching the IV. That'll make it worse. Okay? Your hand won't heal if you keep using it. You gotta let your body mend itself back together if you want any chance of being a competitor."

Once the black cloud above her head vanished, questions began bubbling to the surface. "How did you get into my medical suite so early?"

"Oh, that's easy. I told Nurse Ebony we were family."

"You told Nero's mom that you—" she pointed at him, "are related to me?"

"Yeah!" He said brightly. "You know her?"

"Of course I know her," Clove snapped, "And I'm pretty sure Nero's mom knows we're not related, Felix!"

"Yeah, I know," he replied. "But Nurse Ebony believes I didn't come here to hurt you, so why can't you, too?"

Clove gave him a look of contempt and dismay that seamlessly blended together, "You broke my wrist two days ago! Just because Nero's mom isn't smart enough to figure out when someone's lying to her doesn't mean I'm not."

Felix frowned, softening, "Hey, don't talk about Nurse Ebony that way. She's a good person, H. Because of her, kids like me can continue to train even when our injuries should knock us out of the rankings forever. She makes everything fair game." 

"Well, duh. Every time she puts you back together, you hurt ten more kids who  _can_  pay their hospital bill. You're like her stupid henchman. It's actually pretty smart on her part."

"Look, my point was that I guess she figured whatever I had to say to you was important enough to let me in," Felix conceded, finally.

Clove waited for him to speak, a rather unimpressed expression on her face as he tried to frame his next statement.

"I've been thinking about it for a while," Felix supplied in a casual tone. A tone that fully failed to reflect his intentions, she was sure, "And I think you're the right tribute to go for Quarter Quell."

"That's the year Cato wants to go in. Go talk to him about it. Besides, I already decided I'm gonna go when I'm eighteen so I don't have to share my house with my sister."

Felix gave her perplexed frown. "They'll let your family move in with you after you're eighteen, you know. I don't think it happens a lot, but it's not like a rule or anything that they can't."

Clove hardly entertained the thought. "I already told you - ask Cato. He's the one who actually wants it and I don't even like you so why would I care about anything you have to say?"

"Look at the bigger picture," Felix argued, gesturing widely with his hands. "I'm going for a triple strike. Three victories in a row. Me first, obviously, in the 74th games and then you in 75 to keep it interesting."

Disdain lined her tone, "And then who?"

"Still working that out," Felix broke in dismissively, looking terribly self-congratulatory for no reason in particular.

"What if something happens to one of us before we can even enter?" she challenged, "That's over five years away. You don't even know what could happen between now and then."

Felix's grin fell from his face, but was quickly replaced by a reprimanding frown, challenging her, "There's no competition. I've been the best since the very beginning, so what exactly do you think could happen?"

"I'm not sure that that matters. Besides, even if something doesn't happen to you, something could happen to me. You try to kill me like every week and—"

"Why do you even think I'm here?" he asked, not even bothering to stifle his yawn. "I'm gonna protect you."

"From who?" Clove grumbled.

"From yourself, H," he said. Quietly, he added, "Do your IVs feel better yet?"

Clove nodded slightly. He nodded in faint, exhausted approval, and released her hands. Leaning forward, he laid his head in her lap. "Good."

And then he dozed off, leaving Clove quite unsure of what to do with him.

* * *

It was a regular circus show between the constant accompaniment that surrounded her following that conversation.

"I thought I told Cato to tell you guys to fuck off!" Clove whined when Dicey walked into her suite with a rubber ball in his hand.

Dicey shrugged, bravado overcoming him, "I don't answer to Cato, and more importantly, Clove, I don't answer to empty threats. Don't rely on daddy to do your dirty work for you. You're braver than that."

Clove glared at him and he had the dignity to retreat within himself just a little. Inevitably, Clove gave up on trying to scare him off and returned to her homework. Every few minutes, though, Clove would catch him watching her with curiosity.

Eventually he gathered the courage to speak, and remarked, now rather bored of the disengagement, "If it makes you feel any better at all I promise that book only gets even more boring from there."

Clove closed the book and bit down a smile in response to his candor. "I don't think that's possible," she lamented. "It's pretty bad already. This guy is dumb as bricks. He keeps getting tricked out of his money. At this rate, he'll never make it to Calidornia!" 

"It's California, Clove. What's Calidornia?" Dicey asked, his dimples protruding as he grinned ear to ear, making him a rather endearing figure. "I don't think I've ever seen you actually smile before, you know."

"So?" she asked, feigning immediate disinterest.

"You don't smile very much, just something I noticed."

"Not around you."

"But if you really think about it, you spend way more time with us than anybody else."

"Oh, how could I forget?" Drawing the blanket to her chest, Clove replied staunchly, "Maybe it's because of the time you tried to break my teeth, or the time you pulled my hair, or the time—"

She continued to air her grievances against him and Dicey's face fell. He wasn't smart enough to hide his thoughts like Cato, tactical enough to choose his thoughts carefully like Nero, or brazen enough to share his thoughts without an ounce of shame like Felix, and Clove couldn't help but to favor him least because of it. The way she saw it the other boys were at least consistent in their unsavory mannerisms. Dicey changed direction with the wind, rarely planting roots in a thought for very long, and so it was hard to know who he'd be the next day.

"She's good, you know. You wouldn't think it, but Ellery, she's really good." He lost his thought and exhaled, shaking his head. "I'm really sorry, Clove. I should have believed you."

Clove's stomached clenched. Every line in his face only added to the vulnerability he exuded. She watched him place a hand over his heart, suddenly breathing heavily, swiftly. "I—"

Whatever this was, she didn't particularly like it. She wondered to herself if the words had been hanging off his lips for weeks now, months even. It appeared likely that he'd held onto the words for awhile now, a sure opening, and even though he was saying them to her, she wondered if the words were originally for someone else because since when did he care at all what she thought?

"She didn't think it through much," Clove said, "After all of this, after I heal, I'll be a much stronger candidate for the Games. My weakness will become my strength."

Dicey brightened visibly, nodding slightly. "Yeah!" he said, more relaxed and steadying his breathing. "She should have known it's best never to underestimate your opponents. Something tells me now she won't."

"Yeah, guess we'll see," Clove said.

* * *

Later that the day, Clove had taken to eating her dinner, and worked to re-engineer the grip of the throwing knife in her right hand. So far, her only reward had been anguishing pain.

She released the knife and leaned back into the pillow. With that fruitless effort postponed, she began centering on the inconsequential items decorating the walls: medical posters, a whiteboard with her data (C. Holloway, born February 4th, 58, weight: 60 lb, height: 4'4), and syringe disposal containers.

It didn't take long for her thoughts to stray to Felix's proposal. If the district won three years in a row, the games could be forever changed. This impossibility had, after all, contributed to whispers from older students that the Capitol had stacked the deck against trained districts when it became too predictable.

Would the Capitol really do that? In a bid for honor, how fair would it be to disqualify a deserving entrant from their winnings because of a lack of intrigue?

Then again, if a tribute couldn't take what was dished out, did they deserve to win?

"Nero, what do you want?" Clove asked him finally, rather sour at the way he watched her with disdain but refused to speak his mind.

He straightened up in his chair and his blue eyes found her, "I'm standing guard to keep you from harm."

"You?" she accused, hotly. "You're the reason I'm in this mess to begin with. You threw the first punch! I hate you the most."

"You're the reason you're in this mess!" Nero retorted immediately, "You get ahead of yourself and get everyone into trouble, and trust me, I don't like you either right now!"

"You should have let me at least explain my side of the story!"

Nero's nose scrunched in distaste and he sneered at her, "You lied to me, Clove!"

"I did not! I never said any of what she told you I did."

"Why did I have to find out you're number four in your class from Ellery Watson?" he demanded. "Why would you keep that secret?"

"Rankings are posted on the wall! It's not my fault you never checked," Clove snapped back. "What was I supposed to do? Come up to you and say, 'Hey, Nero. Did you know I outrank you now?' and then have you shoot an arrow through my chest? Nuh-uh, was not going to do that."

"And what the hell were you thinking telling Cato that Uncle Balthazar was going to come after him? Are you insane!"

"Well, I needed to get rid of him somehow, and I did," Clove retorted.

"Military work is confidential. That means it's a secret! You can't just go around telling anyone you fucking feel like just because you're scared!" Nero argued.

"Well, maybe if you had told them to stop, I wouldn't have had to!" Clove screamed back.

Nero's face darkened. "If you can't protect yourself yet, then maybe you need to quit, Clove. Because even if you climb the ranks, cowardice will always make you a waste of the Annex's resources."

"Well, you're a waste of your dad's genes!" She shot back, before realizing what she'd said. Finally, she added, much quieter now, "At least he was loyal. You don't have a loyal bone in your body."

Nero stared her down coldly, bile burning in his stomach and his eyes glassy, as he swallowed and said, "I'm done covering for you, Clove. You're on your own now."

* * *

It felt strange to be on his own. There was a dullness that hung in open air. He peeled the skin off his orange and discarded it into the trash. A group of girls within his cohort passed him, a few honoring him with a sweet smile. He nodded vaguely in response, not doubting that they'd turn on him in a moment if it meant saving their own end.

But for now, he'd focus himself on the upcoming year. In the distance he heard a voice say, "That's him."

It could have been a million miles, but he'd always know his brother's voice in a heartbeat. Once he reoriented, he noticed a young girl looking at him contemptuously. No, it couldn't be...

"What do you want?" He asked. The moment felt peculiar, as if he was reliving it.

"You are Cato. Aren't you?" the child demanded. She was no older than seven, with her brown hair pulled into two pigtails on the top of her head, and striking brown eyes. He suppressed the instinct to tell her how adorable she appeared, especially with the haughty pose she was delivering.

"Yeah, I am," he said.

He could get her back. He could get this moment back, he realized. It warmed his chest.

"This first year has been around the universe and back trying to find you," Mars said, smiling widely. So widely, in fact, that it made Cato suspicious.

"And how'd she find you, then?" Cato eyed his brother, warily.

Mars' devilish grin only became more impish.

Cato tried to compact the situation into smaller pieces of data. The little girl before them seemed tactless, possibly fearless, because she quickly stepped forward without regard for status.

"I just went to all the older kid rooms and waited until someone who looked like a Cato came out of them," she replied, simply.

Cato had a feeling there had to be more to it than that. Because despite sharing DNA, you wouldn't confuse the two; Mars was over a foot taller, with broader muscles, and lighter skin tone. Despite that, Cato only managed to smile at the small girl.

"And please, tell me more about this classic look." Mars prodded. Cato sent him a dirty look.

"Tall and really skinny, like a lamp post! Yellowish hair like a lamp post, too. And then skin like he's been in the sun for a real long time," the girl paused. "But not red, not at all. Mostly, he's gotta look confused, like doesn't know what's going on, because he doesn't have a clue!"

Cato grimaced. This hadn't been how he'd planned to relive this moment.

"And a sword connected to his arm. That part was a lie, though. You don't have a sword connected to your arm at all!" she said, this time directly at him.

Behind her, Mars was barely holding himself together. While a small part of him was glad to see his brother happy again, the bigger part wanted to ax him in the stomach and tell him to knock it off.

"Yeah?" Cato asked, coolly, raising his eyebrows. "Well you found me."

"You're not as tall as I thought. He's taller," she observed, pointing at Mars.

In the knick of time, Mars managed to make a full recovery and correct her. "Whoever you got your information from didn't mention that Cato just finished fifth grade last month."

"Oh," she paused, considering the thought.

"At least she picked the right PT for this quest," Cato said to himself, so quietly that no one could hear.

"Why did you hurt my sister's feelings for, then? You yelled at her and she got really hurt and her throwing arm is broken now!" Within her outrage was a familiar flicker, a spark he recognized. To Clove's credit, though, she had subtlety. The little girl did not.

So, he chastised himself for the glimpse of surprise that crossed his face when she made the decision to stomp on his wrist in retaliation. Looking scandalized, he retracted his hand and began to self-soothe. She appeared entirely nonplussed by the altercation and he had to stifle his mother's advice, prodding him in the back of his mind.

This girl was not the enemy.

Before he had a chance to say anything in turn, Mars stepped forward, yanking the girl back towards the opposite wall. Cato quelled the concern that bubbled. "Hey! That's not how you resolve problems with upperclassmen! Do you understand that?

Cato took a sharp breath. The girl's lip quivered, tears forming quickly.

Mars took a step back and this time said softly, "You could be dismissed for that sort of behavior. I don't think your family would appreciate that."

She sniffled, pushing a loose piece of hair back, and looked away from Mars. He sighed, slightly worn, and pat her on the head awkwardly. In turn, she bit her lip and launched herself onto Mars' left leg and began to cry. Mars gave him a reluctant expression. "How bad is it?"

"It hurts a little, but I dunno'. I guess I'll do something else without it."

He looked at his wrist. Though it stung, he was sure it'd heal shortly. Cato frowned. If this was the damage done by a young girl, then he could only imagine what Clove was suffering through.

Mars pried the girl from his leg, giving her a halfhearted expression of encouragement. "If you'd shown that much potential in your advisory board last month, we would have given you much higher marks."

"Does that mean I could be a candidate one day?" she asked.

"It means you had the element of surprise on your side and that keeps people guessing. Who knows, we may make a tribute out of you yet."

'Don't get her hopes up,' Cato thought to himself. Sure, she had gumption, but...

The little girl grinned, wide. "I'm counting on it, sir!"

"That means you'll have to train hard," Cato said. She watched him, curious. "When you watch the games next year, make sure to root for Mars. He's gonna' train all year just be the best in our whole region so he can win the fight!"

"Cato," Mars chastised.

"I'll be rooting for you, Mr. Mars!" the girl said, cheerfully.

Mars shook his head. He bent to her level and whispered directly into her ear. She nodded and turned to him, whispering before running off.

Cato leaned against the wall, "What'd you say to her?"

"I asked for her name. And she said that it's Magnilda G. Holloway and that I could call her Nelly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cato is 11 / Clove is 10.  
> They will enter 6th and 5th grade respectively. 
> 
> Dicey is 11 / Nero is 11 (nearly 12) / Felix is 12.
> 
> Chapters 6-8 were posted today, 12/16, so if you're reading today, start at chapter 6 to make sure you didn't miss anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, y'all! 
> 
> This is a cross-posting from ffn. I originally wrote this fic in 2012 and am currently in the revision process. So, I'll be posting pretty regularly as I edit since most of the work is already done. If you're interested in reading the fic in its entirety and skipping the wait, you can find me under the same user name on ffn.
> 
> I love conversation, so please let me know of any thoughts or questions ♡.


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